The Great General Kinchmeyer's Ball
by L. E. Wigman
Summary: I know what you're wondering: why is Hochstetter in a powdered wig? Well, pull up a chair and I'll try to explain. Challenge #363 - Now how did **that** come about?(Konarciq) and inspired by #366 - 75th Anniversary of D-Day (Abracadebra)
1. An Object in Motion

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to anything, but the OCs. All events and people in this story are fictitious, unless otherwise stated in an Author's Note.

AN: Hello peoples, the original and long awaited D-Day story! Haha, many apologies for how long this has taken. I hope you'll enjoy and happy reading. Cheers.  
Oh, and many, many thanks to Wind-in-the-sage for reading through and helping me with my many, many errors! ;)

* * *

The counsel in Berlin had broken up an hour ago. To say little was accomplished in the three hour-long argue period was an understatement. That man just would not listen to reason. The defense would be conducted his way or not at all.

General Vinzent Sauer rubbed at the metal cuff on his wrist. It bit into his flesh as he tried to twist it into a less visible position. Attached to the other cuff was a reddish-brown attache case containing his papers. Top secret papers that he was not supposed to let out of his sight for even a second. Beside him on the street were two solemn-faced Gestapo agents, whose names he could not remember. Well, he remembered a 'Tobin', but to which one it belonged was a mystery. He also had little desire to know them personally. They had a mission and so did he. A successful mission, he hoped.

A staff car pulled up to the curb and a young man climbed out of the driver's seat, snapping into a heil salute. One of the Gestapo agents, the taller of the two with black hair and a thin mustache, returned the motion, taking the driver's seat.

The shorter agent reached for the car door and motioned him in. Sauer grimaced, but ducked his head and crawled in.

The drive out of downtown Berlin was quiet - though that was hardly unexpected. In fact, he rather preferred it that way. He leaned against the door frame, staring out at the passing streets. Growing up in Berlin, he'd always been thrilled to return on leave or assignment. Today had been his first visit in months and he'd felt a deep sorrow as he gazed at the city. The Allies had butchered his home. Their bombs tore up streets, cut into homes and factories; his own family home had been struck. The loss of life had been enormous and was growing with each and every air raid.

Had he been a fair man, he'd have considered that the Luftwaffe were causing just as much death and destruction to the English capital; however, he was not fair, nor did he feel any obligation to be objective. They were the enemy and enemy lives ranked far below German ones in his book. A deep and kindling hatred had started to burn. The latest bombings only added more wood to the ever-hungry flame.

His fingers rested upon the briefcase, gently tapping out an old tune he used to know by heart, but the timing of which he was now having trouble remembering. Damned war. Would it ruin everything? He pondered the decisions made and questioned whether they would be enough. If the Allies gained a foothold, the result could be catastrophic. His jaw clenched and he allowed himself the briefest memory of what had happened the last time the war was on the continent. He would not allow that to happen again.

The car pulled to a stop at the train depot and the men got out. Sauer waited as the agents spoke to the ticketmaster. It was a very long trip from Berlin to Normandy and it was made even longer due to the enemy bomb groups and cowardly saboteurs blowing rail lines and yards as fast as they were repaired. He pinched the bridge of his nose as the ticketmaster laid out every path on the rerouting.

Berlin to Leipzig. Leipzig to Nuremberg. Nuremberg to Stuttgart… at this rate he'd be all over the Fatherland before they even made it to the border. The Gestapo agents looked even more displeased than he did, but they charged the tickets to the government account and escorted him to the train.

H~H

"Oof!"

Newkirk rolled his eyes and paused long enough to make sure Carter hadn't hurt himself. The American sat up, rubbing his elbow while scrambling back up to his feet.

"Hurry up, Andrew."

"Sorry. It's these boots."

Newkirk snorted. "Shouldn't have spilled acid on your Army issues then."

Carter nodded and brushed some dirt off the knees of his trousers. "Better them than my toes."

They grew quiet as they approached the target. The Adolf Hitler Bridge, mark 3. It was a decent enough bridge, but less broad than versions 1 and 2. Two buildings about the size of telephone booths, housing the guards, stood at either end of the bridge. They'd been added with the second version, then upgraded with the third.

Carter couldn't help feeling a sense of pride that these modifications and the beefed up security were considered so necessary as to eat up extra funds and manpower. He also felt a deep sense of challenge. Every bridge, even if it was in the same location, was different. Every single element of the job was to be considered and weighed against every other element.

On Monday they sneaked out, just Newkirk and him. Newkirk took stock of the guards, the timing and pattern of the sweeps they took every twenty minutes, and jotted it down in a little notebook; meanwhile, Carter took photographs from as many angles as he could before they headed back to camp.

Tuesday and Wednesday, after daily chores - like cleaning Klink's offices from stem to stern - he developed the film then carefully studied the photographs, calculating the distance between the columns and figuring exactly which of them to destroy.

Thursday, he mixed the explosives so that they were just strong enough to take out the key support beams, but not so strong that it would take out the guards themselves. It was an honest-to-goodness art, one in which he found great joy, even if he did lose a good pair of boots in the process.

Friday night was go-time. He placed all of his supplies into waterproofed leather bags, carefully packing the dynamite and blasting caps separately so that they would be less likely to detonate prematurely. He and Newkirk dressed in their blacks, smeared their faces with soot, and slipped out of camp.

All their time spent outside the wire added a certain bit of suspense or danger to his craft. He now fully understood what Newkirk spoke about with his tales of housebreaking and pick-pocketing. It was an adrenaline rush, the likes of which he hadn't felt since bailing out of his first plane crash. The second time was still thrilling, just without the sheer, mind-numbing terror of uncertainty he'd found with the first.

They walked, then crawled as close as they could before splitting up. Newkirk took the closest column, climbing up with ease. Carter picked through the brush and crawled up the other side. He could hear the guards chatting, planning big things for their paycheck that Saturday. He pushed the conversation out of his mind and focused on the task; after all, Ma always said eavesdropping was impolite. He held on to the top cross beam and worked his way into a position with his back pressed against one column and his feet against the other. Once he'd settled, he pulled his bags in front of him and removed the dynamite pack, detonator, and the clock he used for a timer.

He'd just finished putting the pack in place when his boot slipped. He regained his balance, barely managing to hold onto the clock and detonator, but the bags slipped from his lap and landed with a thud in the dry gully almost thirty feet below.

"_What was that?_"

Carter froze, barely daring to breathe.

"_What?"_

Newkirk watched from the other side. With his packs already in place, he'd started down, stopping when Carter slipped. He took his pistol from his waistband and steadied himself.

"_It sounded like a … 'buh-dump'."_

"_Buh-dump? Have you put schnapps in your canteen again?"_

"_It's cold out!"_

"_Just don't drink anymore. If you're found out, we'll both end up on the Front."_

"_But…"_

"_Shh!"_

The argument quieted and Carter resumed breathing, quickly connecting the detonator and setting the clock for two-thirty as planned. He shimmied down the column, snatching up his bags as he headed after Newkirk. The pair travel quickly and as quietly as possible, Carter keeping a mental countdown. _Three Mississippi, two Mississippi, one Mississippi. _He rolled his eyes in irritation. He hated when his count was off. _One Mississippi, two…_

The earth shuddered beneath them, throwing them off balance as a thunderous sound exploded through the forest. Scrambling to their feet, they broke into a controlled run, slow enough to keep alert, but fast enough to put daylight between them and the sure-to-be-following patrols.

Carter tripped over a branch and landed on his knees. Newkirk cursed under his breath.

"Sorry. It's these boots."

H~H

"_Athena calling Papa Bear. Come in, Papa Bear."_

Kinch lay on the cot in the tunnel. He had his clipboard on his lap, pencil between his teeth, trying to find a way to write this letter home without violating the censors of either side or repeating the same-old, same-old : Weather bad, food bad, fun non-existent.

At the crackling of the radio, he sat up, quickly pulling his letter from the clipboard so that there was a fresh sheet to take down the incoming message.

"_Athena calling Papa Bear. Do you read me, Papa Bear?"_

"Papa Bear here. Go ahead, Athena."

"_Mary had a little lamb with fleece as red as blood. She took the lamb to the train and traveled far away. Where she was to go, no one doth know, but for safe passage, she did pay. 0-4-0-7-2-5-0-5-2-1-0-8. Repeat. 0-4-0-7-2-5-0-5-2-1-0-8. Acknowledge?"_

Kinch wrote the message down and tucked the pencil behind his ear. "Affirmative, Athena. Papa Bear out."

He disconnected the radio and went for the ladder, pulling the lever. The mattress above raised as the ladder settled into place. He climbed up and swung his leg over the side of the bunk. He closed the opening then crossed the common room quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping men - some of whom had just settled into bed less than an hour ago.

After a soft knock and a mumbled 'enter', he opened the door. "Message from Athena, Colonel," he said, closing the door behind him.

Hogan rolled off of the top bunk landing on his bare feet and sucking in a deep breath at the chill of the wood. He slid the darkening curtain across the window before switching on the lamp. Kinch handed over the clipboard and pencil.

"Urgent information being sent by train and the courier has an escort, probably armed."

Kinch nodded then pointed to the numbers. "I translated that into letters, but it didn't make any sense."

"That's because Athena double coded it. It must be big," Hogan said absently, working the numbers into letters than decoding the letters. "v-s-a-u-e-r…"

He sat back and Kinch frowned.

"Scrambled code?"

Hogan shook his head, "She's never used it before… A name, maybe? I want you to check the files, but first send a request out to the underground for any information on any kind of package or special transport. Anything headed this way that's out of the ordinary." He handed the clipboard back with half a smile. "Sorry, Kinch. No rest for the weary."

"Of course not, sir, I hear there's a war on somewhere."

Kinch heard Hogan's soft chuckle as he left the office. He went to the stove to pour himself the last of supper's coffee - which was lukewarm at best, but beggars, you know - then he descended the ladder with coffee and clipboard in hand. Reaching the bottom, he pulled the lever to close the entrance.

He set his items down on the table and switched the radio back on. He noticed the half-written letter as he went to the files. Oh, well… Mama's letter would have to wait another day.

**_TBC..._**


	2. Visitors

Major Hochstetter considered the evidence before him. The Adolph Hitler Bridge had been blown out… Again! And this cast of a footprint was all he had to catch the culprit. He'd barged into Camp 13, intent on proving it was Hogan's. He was so sure this time, even Hogan had seemed anxious, but it was too big - too wide. Then came the clincher… the tread pattern indicated that it was from a German boot, not American.

_Bah!_

He'd felt the burning twinge of embarrassment wash over him; a feeling that became increasingly familiar the longer he knew one Colonel Robert E. Hogan. He didn't know how, and he had no concrete way to prove it, but he knew Hogan had had a hand in every case of sabotage committed against the Fatherland since he'd arrived in Hammelburg almost three years ago. His phone buzzed and he snatched up the receiver and barked into it.

"Ja?"

He softened a little, the annoyance pushed to the side as he said, "Ja, send them in."

He dropped the receiver into its cradle and straightened his desk, then his uniform before the door opened and three men entered the room.

"Inspector Vogt," he greeted. "Kommissar Tobin. Herr General." They returned the salute and took the offered chairs. "What can I do for you?"

Vogt, a short man in his mid-40s, cleared his throat. "As you know, the destruction of the Adolf Hitler Bridge has disrupted train travel. The station master said it might be a week or even ten days to get things repaired and running," he explained. "We require a safe place to stay until the railway reroutes trains to France. It needs to be out of the way. A place where no one would think of looking, a place that is completely secure."

"Of course," he said, nodding. "May I ask…"

"No, you may not," Vogt said, cutting him off. "Security is paramount. Complete security."

Instantly, Hochstetter began calculating how to spin this to his advantage. This mysterious group of men with their secretive mission. It was just the sort of thing Hogan would find irresistible. As his papa always told him, 'Wolfgang, my boy, if you want to trap the best, use nothing but the best bait'. The corner of his mouth twitched upward as he spoke, "Have any of you heard of Luft-Stalag 13?"

"A prisoner of war camp, isn't it?" the general asked.

"Not just any prisoner of war camp, but the toughest camp in all of Germany," Hochstetter parroted Klink's self-styled moniker with a brief, but passing concern for the likelihood of being struck by lightning. "If the general would not be opposed to putting up with the sight of Allied rabble, it would be the most secure area to stay."

Vogt gave the General a questioning look and received a shrug of indifference in response. "Very well, Major. Make the arrangements."

Hochstetter picked up his telephone. "Get me Stalag 13," he said, before returning his attention to the men before him. "Klink has a prisoner who is an excellent chef, so it won't be a complete waste of time."

"_Good evening. Kommandant Klink's office."_

H~H

"Crown me."

Newkirk frowned down at the board where Carter had just claimed four of his pieces.

He could beat Andrew at gin, embarrass him at poker, and positively slaughter him in monopoly - though the rumour of his wins being less than honest floated frequently. However, try as he might, and he had been for the last eighteen months since Carter got here, he had never beaten him at draughts.

As was the usual story, Andrew had maneuvered him into the position where the only legal move was the one that finished him off. Newkirk looked up and saw a sliver of relish in those blue eyes that positively danced with suppressed laughter. _Bloody Yank._

"You win," he said, pushing the game toward him in an irritated manner. He dug his pack out of his pocket, took the final cigarette and crumpled the wrap.

"Another game?"

"No, Andrew." Newkirk tossed the wrap toward the rubbish bucket. It bounced off, tumbling to the floor and his voice switched to a growl. "I don't want another bloody game."

LeBeau stood on the other side of the room. Saturday was wash day. Garlotti and Goldman had finished the laundry that morning, leaving it to dry in the afternoon sun. It was gathered up and brought in just after evening roll call. LeBeau was tasked with ironing the shirts and pants. He used his iron skillet and an old board Addison used for back support under his mattress.

"You are a sore sport," he said, sliding the pan over the colonel's trousers, creating a sharp crease in the front of the pant leg.

"Bad sport."

"Sore loser."

LeBeau pulled a face at the two grammar nazis' simultaneous corrections and moved the pan back to the stove. He folded the trousers neatly and moved on to the colonel's shirt.

Kinch came up from the tunnel. His eyes were bloodshot and he fought back a yawn. These all-nighters, which often drifted into all-dayers, were beginning to get to him. He was twenty-six going on seventy. He almost collided with Hogan, who was on his way out of this office with empty coffee mug in hand.

"I found it," Kinch said tiredly, sinking down onto the nearest bunk. "We don't have a file on him, but Baker and I went through almost every file we have and finally found a brief mention of a General Sauer, stationed on the French coast, near Calais."

"How do we know it's the same bloke?" Newkirk asked. He seemed to magically pull a deck of cards from thin air, shuffled them, and dealt a hand of gin, which Carter goodnaturedly picked up.

"According to our agent on the coast, Sauer went to Berlin three days ago," Kinch said.

"Alright, it's the same bloke," Newkirk concurred. "Assuming he's got this special package, how do we find him?"

A sharp knock drew attention to the bunk. Kinch stood and depressed the trigger, allowing Olsen, who was returning from a trip into Hammelburg, to appear. He climbed over the side and headed straight for the Colonel.

"A staff car just came through the gate, Colonel."

Without a word, Hogan took Broughton's spot at the door. Sure enough, a staff car was idling in front of the kommandantur. A group of men stood beside it speaking with Klink. The only one he recognized was Hochstetter. He was back and looking in the direction of Barracks 2. Their gazes met across the yard. He seemed pleased. Too pleased.

The tallest of the three unknowns was in his twenties with cropped black hair. Hogan figured he must have been lowest man on the totem pole, because he was helping Schultz with the bags. The other man in an identical, grey uniform was about the same build as Hochstetter with blonde hair that was starting to grey. The final man was the important one, obviously. He was older, maybe his mid-sixties, and the bright red strip that ran down his pants indicated that he was a general. The briefcase attached to his arm with a metal cuff was the most interesting thing about him.

"Aren't these krauts obliging," Newkirk said. He was with Carter at the window by the sink and all eyes were on the scene playing outside.

"I bet that's our secret general," LeBeau said, peeking over Hogan's shoulder.

Carter chuckled. "Here we were wondering what to do next and then he falls into our laps, like on Ellery Queen or Charlie Chan or…"

"Nevermind the Friday night lineup," Newkirk interrupted. "What's he doing here?"

Hogan studied him closely. He was tall and slim, carrying himself up the steps with a sense of control. He paused on the porch and looked over the camp yard. Hochstetter leaned in and said something to Sauer. The general's gaze snapped to barracks two briefly, before he turned his back abruptly and pushed his way into the kommandantur.

"I guess I'll go shake the trees and see what falls out. Keep an ear on the coffee pot."

Hogan headed out into the yard, stopping just long enough for Langenscheidt to drive the staff car past the office. Broughton took the now empty spot at the door and Hogan's crew went to his office to connect the listening device.

H~H

"Please, make yourselves comfortable," Klink said as he followed all the men into his office. "My stalag is your stalag! I will be happy to provide whatever you need. Schnapps? Or perhaps a cigar?"

Sauer surveyed the sparse office, his eye drawn to the camp map behind Klink's desk. He went to study it while Inspector Vogt covered the accommodations.

"We will need quarters, preferably away from the prisoners and secure from prying eyes."

Vogt's voice was high and squeaky and Klink was caught off guard. He fought to keep the mirth from his face, succeeding only when Hochstetter chimed in.

"And make sure Hogan and his men are told to keep away!"

"Of course, Herr major, Herr Inspector," Klink said solemnly. "Rest assured your privacy and security will be our top priority."

The door banged open and Schultz backed into the room, arguing with Hogan. The colonel patted him on the belly and sidestepped him with ease, that worn cap set back on his head and a ridiculously at-ease smile on his face. Klink's gaze darted over to Hochstetter nervously, expecting him to erupt.

"Hogan!" Klink snapped, hoping to get ahead of the situation. "Not now. I have guests. Out."

Hogan's smile morphed into controlled indignation in a nanosecond. "The Geneva Convention lists that prisoners' grievances are to be heard and addressed immediately," he parroted the phrase as he had almost daily since Klink had assumed command.

"I can't imagine what you would have to complain about," Sauer said in quick, moderately-accented English. He'd turned briefly when Hogan burst in, but had since returned to studying the map. "You have a roof over your head, heat and running water, a mess and recreation hall. You sit out the war in the relative lap of luxury, while your comrades die. You ceased to be a man worthy of grievance - let alone a soldier - from the moment you were captured."

The room stilled and Hogan turned his head to the side. He'd met more than enough pompous, career military men, from both sides, during this war. But ever since General Barton's* capture and release, questions of his usefulness and loyalty hit a raw nerve causing him to to feel uncharacteristically defensive. He spoke to the man's back.

"This whole being captured thing wasn't exactly my idea. I don't want to give the kommandant too big of a head, but he runs a tight ship."

Klink puffed up with the praise and Hochstetter scowled. Sauer turned and looked him in the eye, sending a wave of apprehension through him. "I've been here less than fifteen minutes and have located no less than four different points of weakness." His voice was even and controlled, but full of contempt. "Even if you were a dimwit, you might have stumbled your way out of here... which leads me to conclude that you are a coward."

"Not at all, Herr General," Hogan replied, the cocky smile in place though his voice had an edge. "I consider it in the best interest of the war effort if I'm not shot in the back while attempting to escape."

Desperately wanting to change the subject to anything else, Klink rubbed his hands together and chuckled. "I just had a marvelous idea. I have a French prisoner, who just so happens to have been a chef before the war. I'm sure he would be thrilled to prepare something for you, sir."

"I detest French food."

Hogan could almost hear LeBeau hitting the roof. The man read like the classic, German general stereotype. He was callous and haughty in demeanor. His stance was firm and impenetrable, like a wall. But all walls have a weak point.

_There's an opening - a chink in the armor - somewhere,_ Hogan told himself_, I just have to find it._

Hochstetter broke in on the silence. He seemed to be enjoying the verbal sparring and Hogan's discomfort. "Since you are here, I'll save myself the trouble and likelihood of miscommunication. You and your men are to stay away from the General. He will be under around-the-clock guard and I will personally oversee the security of the camp. Violations of this order will be punished severely. I hope that's clear enough."

"Crystal."

"Dismissed, Hogan."

H~H

The scene in the barracks was dismal. Newkirk and Carter had resumed their game, though neither paid much attention to the actual game play. LeBeau continued the week's ironing. Hogan entered and was greeted with suspicious looks.

"We have to know what's in the briefcase."

The statement fell on unsympathetic ears and was met with a few unpleasant mutterings.

"I suppose you'll have a brilliant plan, which requires supplies we don't have and has no chance of working," Newkirk said innocently. He dropped a six and Carter picked it up. "Right, Guv?"

Hogan pressed his lips together in a thin line. Perhaps he was getting too predictable in his old age. "I'm working on it."

Kinch joined them from the Colonel's quarters and took a seat beside Newkirk. "It had better be a good one," he said. "Major Sunshine has called an S.S. unit stationed in Schweinfurt for a platoon of men for the next ten days. Vogt and his companion will stay with Sauer in the VIP quarters while Hochstetter's platoon will take over the running of the camp. Gates, watch towers, and everything else, except barracks guards."

"Great."

"That's not it, sir." Kinch hesitated, but forged ahead. "He's also insisted that the prisoners are to have restrictions. All barracks close to the VIP quarters are to be moved, assimilated into barracks 4 and anywhere else they can put them. Any of Klink's men found within ten meters of the VIP quarters will be put on immediate report and any prisoner found within ten meters will be sent to the cooler."

"Any more good news?"

"Yes, sir. Any prisoner found _inside_ the VIP quarters will be shot upon discovery. No questions asked. No chance for explanations."

The next moment was completely silent as the meaning of Kinch's report settled over the room. Carter, not sure how he should feel, looked around the room wordlessly seeking guidance. Newkirk's jaw was clenched, allowing the annoyance to radiate off of him for everyone else to see and experience. LeBeau went on about his work, though his eyes kept finding Carter's and there was little assurance for either party. Hogan met Kinch's gaze saying grimly, "I said we had to do it. I didn't say it would be easy."

* * *

_**TBC...**_

Author's Note: *General Barton is from the Season 2 episode 17, 'The General Swap', and is portrayed by, Frank Gerstle.


	3. A Crazy Idea?

AN: This took me longer to edit than I expected and all due to sheer laziness. Apologies. And thank you for all the reviews and follows. I'll get to sending personalized notes, but I do greatly appreciate it. Cheers.

* * *

Later that night, just before lights-out, two heavy trucks covered with grey canvas pulled through the gates, stopped, and let out seven men. These men immediately took over the two watchtowers and the gates, relieving Klink's men, who backed away like kids when daddy comes home and takes over the job. The trucks moved on to the kommandantur, and within twenty minutes, men in black uniforms milled about, assuming spots along the perimeter.

Klink and his men were allowed to oversee the transfer of the prisoners in barracks 17, 18, and 19. Schultz bustled them about, fielding complaints from them and the members of the barracks in which they were deposited. Stalag Thirteen wasn't overly crowded, not like the camps in the east, but when you took away three barracks which housed close to sixty men… things got a whole lot tighter.

Hogan had spent the last three hours pacing in his quarters planning and organizing, then shooting the plan full of holes and tossing it in the wastebasket. Olsen had taken over at the radio to give Kinch and Baker some much needed rest. Newkirk, Carter, and LeBeau spread the word that the tunnels were on lock down and not to be accessed while the uber goons were visiting. Hogan also insisted that the whole camp was to be on best behavior, so no taunting the soldiers with actual bullets in their guns.

The next morning's roll call was the first time they were seen in action. Schultz attempted to usher the prisoners out quickly, his tone harsher than he'd ever used before. No one took him too seriously - he was just Schultzie after all - but his S.S. escort didn't care for Carter's cheerful bid of good-morning and jammed the butt of his machine gun between his shoulder blades.

Newkirk caught his friend before his knees hit the floor, then started forward towards the guard. It took all of Carter's strength and Olsen stepping over to keep things from going too far.

"What are you doing?" Schultz complained in German. "These are Prisoners of War. They are not to be abused. The Geneva Convention is strictly observed here."

"What's going on?"

Hogan appeared in the doorway, his face marred with an unfamiliar frown. He moved across the common room and squared off with the guard.

"Roll call," the guard sneered, stepping back and ambling out.

Newkirk and LeBeau both voiced their complaints of the rough treatment, while Schultz whined about having no control and that he was sorry. Carter accepted this readily and did his best to shrug off the pain. Hogan pressed in closer, saying in a low tone that he should see Wilson afterward, if for nothing more than a couple of aspirin.

They shuffled out, hunching into the snowy mix that was falling at a light, steady pace, and assumed their places. Hochstetter was on the porch beside Klink, who was trying hard not to get caught in breach of protocol. Hogan's gaze drifted lazily to the guest quarters, which was more like a real house than the longhouse shape of the barracks. It was two stories with bars on all the windows. On the narrow porch that wrapped around the building in an L- shape, were two S.S. guards. Knowing what Hochstetter had said in Klink's office, he presumed that two more guards were outside the rear exit, too.

A slow, disinterested sweep of the rest of the compound revealed that the black uniforms had taken over the rest of the important buildings: the gate, the kommandantur, the armoury and its adjoining munitions dump, and even the motor pool had men stationed in front of it. The barracks guards remained the same. Some accompanied by S.S., others not. The fence was still walked by Luftwaffe men, though they seemed more serious and on edge than usual.

_So, if we can't get in, _Hogan pondered, as Schultz began the walk through the rows. _We'll just have to make General Sauer come out and join us._

"REPORT!"

Klink remained on the porch as Schultz yelled out the report: all present and correct. He had just called for dismissal when a scuffle broke out in front of barracks 7. This barracks was all French POWs and the black and grey uniforms tangled and mixed with the brighter red ones.

Hogan tapped Kinch's shoulder before dashing across the yard. Kinch sent the members of barracks 2 to help the other barracks' chiefs to keep their men in control. The last thing they needed was to start a camp-wide brawl. Hogan reached the men and started to pull them apart, joined by a frantic Klink and an enraged Hochstetter. The guards in the watchtower fired in short bursts into the ground, which broke things up in short order.

"What is going on here!" Hochstetter demanded. "Hogan, unhand Corporal Hoch immediately!"

Hogan released the corporal's arm, which was twisted behind his back, and stepped away, keeping his hands out and visible.

Hochstetter turned his attention to the French soldiers, who were subdued, but still seething. "Corporal Hoch, what happened?"

The corporal, an ugly brute with a deep twisted scar under his right eye running down just past the corner of his mouth, straightened his uniform and took a few calming breaths. "Herr Major, the prisoner showed immense disrespect and when I put him on report, that one attacked me."

Hoch pointed out the barracks chief, Lieutenant Gilles Paquet. The French prisoners vocalized their disagreement with that characterization of events loudly and with a not-so-subtle hint of malice. Hogan met Paquet's gaze and the Frenchman shook his head slightly, confirming Hogan's suspicions. He quieted them down and turned to Klink, who looked as if he wished to be anywhere but there.

"Kommandant, this is obviously a misunderstanding. Something simply got lost in translation."

Hoch interrupted, "Nothing was 'lost in translation', Herr Kommandant."

Klink received a pointed look from Hochstetter before he spoke cautiously, "The prisoners of Barracks 7 are to remain confined to barracks for the rest of today and the next week. Lieutenant Paquet, you will apologize immediately."

Paquet gave a derisive snort and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Very well. Schultz!"

The sergeant of the guard had hung back during the scuffle, unwilling to be involved in the bloodshed he firmly believed to be inevitable. He now appeared at the Kommandant's elbow with a click of his heels and a hearty 'jawohl'.

"Take Lieutenant Paquet to the cooler where he will remain until he's ready to apologize."

Paquet kept his head high as Schultz marched him across the compound to the damp, underground cells. Hogan had very little doubt that the war would end before the lieutenant felt like apologizing.

"I think a camp-wide deterrent would ensure that none of the prisoners would foolishly forget their manners again," Hochstetter said. His eyes never left Hogan's, daring him to object.

"The entire camp shall lose a half-hour…" Hochstetter cleared his throat and Klink amended, "a _full_ hour of light for a month?"

Hochstetter smiled, seemingly appeased, and Klink relaxed.

"I'm beginning to wonder who's in charge of Stalag 13, Kommandant," Hogan said.

"Then allow me to clarify; while the General is in camp, all matters will be run through me," Hochstetter said, that same pleased as Punch look on his face. "As long as you and your fellow prisoners behave, we shall not cross swords, Hogan. If you do not, it will be my distinct pleasure to give you exactly what you most deserve."

"Really." He smirked. "Blonde or brunette?"

Without waiting to be dismissed, Hogan turned on his heel and walked away. The smirk disappeared as he felt Defeat slipping closer to him and wrapping her cold, clammy grasp around his shoulder. His previous companion, Victory, was in the ladies' dusting her nose and he hoped she wouldn't be too long about it.

H~H

The Allied question and complaints committee was kept busy the rest of the morning as other smaller, less theatrical skirmishes went on around camp. A couple more prisoners were sent to the cooler, the doors of the rec hall were padlocked, and the white bread was cut out of the rations.

Klink, who felt a bit emasculated as the issues were handled by Hochstetter, had withdrawn to the solitude of his quarters and the dulling, comforting powers of alcohol and violin. Schultz was also making himself scarce due to getting it from brutal fanatics on one side and angry, betrayed prisoners on the other.

Hogan and the crew were going over the plans. They had to draw Sauer out. The question was: how?

They received a bit of information that London intelligence had been able to gather on Sauer. He was an enlisted soldier, who was awarded a commission during the first war before being captured in 1916 by the French. In '17, he was sent home in a prisoner exchange and spent 15 months in a convalescent's home, though his condition was unknown. He returned to duty in October of '18 and was one of the few officers maintained through the Treaty of Versailles.

In London's considered opinion, Sauer was loyal to the Fatherland regardless of what government or leader was in power. The only obvious weak spot was Sauer's desire to be at home in Berlin. He'd made waves by protesting his appointment to France - believed to be because of his time spent in the country as a POW - and was submitting regular, biweekly requests for transfer.

"You know, I think I've got something," Newkirk said from his spot at the table, which was as close to the stove as he could get without burning himself. He always sat there even when the days became warmer, for he was always so cold. "What if Andrew here gets everything he's got hidden away in that secret lair of his, puts it in the dead-center of camp and blows Hochstetter and all his friends clean to Timbuktu while we scarper on back to old Britannia to do some honest soldiering?"

The barracks groaned and rolled their eyes as a collective. This had been Newkirk's plan A for every mission for the past two plus years. It had occasionally been plan B, too.

"Since when have you ever done anything honest?" Olsen quipped. He was on the top bunk across from the tunnel's entrance, laying on his stomach. Newkirk gave him a glare without further comment.

Hogan leaned back in the only chair in the barracks with a back and studied the grain of the boards making up the roof. Their plan needed to come together quickly. The Underground was keeping an eye on the track repair progress and it was looking like the repairs were coming along smoothly. He agreed with London - the way in was the transfer requests. He knew he had to use that to his advantage. People who want things are easy to manipulate so long as they aren't pushed too hard.

Carter snapped his fingers, eyes darting about excitedly from face to face. "I have it!"

"Heaven help us," Newkirk muttered.

"We can't go in the front door, or the back door, or any of the windows because of the guards, right?"

"Well done, Sherlock."

LeBeau topped off everyone's mugs and gave the Brit a withering look. "Go ahead, Andre," he encouraged before returning the pot to the stove.

"Well, we can't use the tunnel without revealing the entire system… so if we can't go up and we can't come at it from the sides, why don't we go down?"

"Down?"

Carter nodded. "We'll cut a hole in the roof above Sauer's bedroom - just a small one," he interjected, seeing their dubious faces. "Lower Newkirk down - while the general's asleep, of course - he picks the lock, photographs whatever's in the briefcase, and then we pull him back up."

"Up and down like a ruddy yo-yo?" Newkirk squawked indignantly.

"Good enough for that Delaney guy you're always yammering on about." Carter muttered. He couldn't help being miffed by the lack of enthusiasm for, in his mind, a truly inspired idea.

Newkirk reached for his tin mug of tea. "Robert Delaney* was one of the great thieves of our time. He didn't get hauled about on rope. He used genuine silk and he did it in his best dress, like he was off to some fancy do at the palace. And most importantly, when he got caught, he was detained at his Majesty's pleasure, not lined up to be an over-eager kraut's target practice."

"Well," Carter sniffed, "it was better than your idea."

Hogan sat up in his chair. Blocking out the squabbling going on between Newkirk and Carter, he rolled it over and over in his mind. It was drastic and over the top, perhaps a bit doolally, but it just might work. "That's very good," he said absently, standing to pace the floor. The whole plan beginning play out in his mind and develop into a real whopper, if he did think so himself.

"You can't be serious, Guv!" Newkirk said, while Carter suddenly brightened.

Kinch furrowed his brows, saying, "As much as I hate agreeing with Newkirk, I'm not sure sawing a hole in the roof is very, uh… subtle."

"Hmm?" Hogan looked up. "On, no. We aren't doing that. The Germans are going to throw a masked ball."

The men all looked at each other, each thinking the same thing. The Colonel had finally cracked up, lost his marbles, he just wasn't playing with a full deck. He was completely crackers.

"A ball, sir?" Kinch asked slowly.

Hogan nodded, "An eighteenth century ball with the wigs, masks, and everything; the masks are very important."

Another round of silence prevailed until Newkirk leaned forward on the table, wrapping his hands around his mug. "And just how are we going to convince the krauts to throw this masked ball?" he asked.

"Tell them it's a for a birthday of one of their kings... Frederick the Great or someone like that. A real grand soiree that celebrates their history. Newkirk, do you think you can make up two costumes?"

"How soon were you thinking?"

"Today's Wednesday… so, by the end of the week? Saturday night seems appropriate."

Newkirk scratched his jaw then nodded. "Might not be my best work, but I can do it with the right materials."

"Give Olsen your shopping list and he can pick it up from the tailor in Hammelburg. Carter and Kinch, I want every bigwig you can find at that party. I want official, hand delivered invitations from General Kinchmeyer. Oh, and Olsen, while you're in Hammelburg tonight I want you to wear an S.S uniform. Reserve the ballroom at the Beer Hall under General Kinchmeyer's directive and don't forget to arrange the catering. LeBeau, put together a list of the best, traditional German foods."

The Frenchman pulled a face, but he grudgingly acquiesced. "Oui, mon colonel."

"Look, I know it sounds a bit crazy, but the only way we'll get a crack at the briefcase is if it's out in the open. And the only way to get around Hochstetter's suspicion is if it's away from Stalag 13 with lots of other suspects. Ideally, we won't need to cast the suspicion elsewhere, but better safe than sorry."

"Crazy?" Kinch said, a playful grin on his face. "Surely not crazier than building our own plane*?"

"Or stealing, disassembling, and reassembling a tiger tank*." Newkirk added.

LeBeau lifted his mug in salute. "Then there's the boat* we built, oui?"

"Or all those times I've impersonated Hitler."

"After all of that, what's one measly little ball?" Kinch asked.

_**TBC...**_

* * *

*Robert Delaney was a notorious cat burgler in 1920's Britain.

*The plane they built was from the episode, _The Flight of the __Valkyrie._

_*_The tank fiasco was from the episode, _Hold that Tiger._

_*_And lastly, the boat was from the episode, _Anchors Aweigh, Men of Stalag 13._


End file.
